Squinting at a jar of pickles the unbeliever wonders what is true, if a unique blend of spices indeed awaits him. He knows what to do, which of the can opener’s ends will pry the metal lid, spirit escaping. Therein: bodies and juice. In the priest’s white-fingered pinch the wafer used to look full of promise, unleavened by doubt or brine. Its taste was paper on which to write every frailty, another chance for good to sustain his mazy journey. … Read on…